Cat and Mouse
by two fish
Summary: “She could not help but wonder what had happened to him, that they, so different once, should now find themselves wearing such similar countenances.” Estella Bolger encounters Lotho Sackville-Baggins two months before the Battle of Bywater.
1. I

**I**

Michel Delving, Westfarthing. Halimath, September 3, 1419, S.R.

Two Months Before.

The air was stale. It hung stagnantly in the darkness, musty and dank and suffocating. Dim shafts of light were caught in a gray, dirty fog that wrapped itself around every corner, beneath every archway, and waited ominously outside her cold, lonely cell. Her shallow breaths froze in the air, their fleeting appearances the only apparent sign that she was still alive.

She sat unmoving with her legs pulled to her chest, wearing only the threadbare remnants of a sullied linen shirt and tattered brown breeches, the corners of a threadbare blanket clutched in her frail, frozen fingers. They had taken her father's overcoat. Her nose was planted firmly between her legs, her pale, dirt-smeared cheekbones digging into her bony knees. The stone floor felt like ice beneath her.

Dripping monotonously through a crack in the ceiling was the run off from last week's snow, now melted to a muddy slush. She watched numbly through dark, watery eyes as it pooled in the corner, trickling away to trace the mortar ruts in the stonework. She felt its coolness napping softly at her bare feet, wetting the bottoms of her trousers. Its subtle progression breached the stillness that threatened to stifle her.

A ripple seized the puddle, its sudden movement drawing her from her trance. As her mind cleared, she became dimly aware that footsteps were approaching, their echoes, faint at first, becoming louder, cutting sharply through the heavy atmosphere. They pounded the floor with authority, each step deliberate, distinct, incredibly crisp. Whoever was coming had a purpose. Whoever was coming was coming for someone else.

She withdrew even more into the darkness as they neared and rounded the corner, suddenly audible with overwhelming clarity. She willed them to go on, to pass her by, but to her horror, they began to slow. Light suddenly spilled into her cell, blinding her completely. Her breath quickened. She buried her face and clenched her eyes shut, body shaking uncontrollably.

The piercing sound of clanging keys caused her heart to jump, and an unbearable tightness grew within her chest. She held her breath as the rusted door of her cell was opened with a painful screech that echoed violently down the dark corridor. The faint smell of smoke filled her nostrils, and she could feel the glow of lantern light flickering on the floor, tickling the edges of her toes. The sensation was incredibly foreign; she had not felt the touch of light in days.

The stranger suddenly stepped nearer, looming over her, then emitted a soft chuckled that might have unraveled her completely had the familiar voice that followed not made her blood run cold.

"Get up, Estella. I know you're awake."

**II**

Budgeford, Bridgefields, Eastfarthing. Afterlithe, June 30, 1404, S.R.

_Today was your nineteenth birthday. I know, because I gave you a dozen lilies, a box of sweets, a gray kitten and an almost kiss. You gave me a slap in the face. I can't say I didn't see that one coming. But I hope you enjoyed the sweets all the same. And please keep the kitten._

_I know you don't like me, Estella, and that's all right. You think I'm too careless, too immature. I know because I heard you talking with Alice Longbottom the other day when you said I was without a doubt the Hobbit Most Likely to Get Himself Eradicated in the Most Flagrantly Obvious and Mind-Numbingly Obscurest Way Possible. I don't actually know what all that means, but I have a general idea. And maybe you're right, maybe that is all I am. But I hope you're not. And I think, sometimes, you do too. _

_Because you know Estella, I saw you hesitate. It was only for a moment, right before you slammed the door in my face, but it was there, it happened. You frowned, and knitted your eyebrows together. I know you want to think that it was just because you were mad at me, but really, I think you know it was something else. _

_I think, Estella, that for a second you actually wanted to be happy about the flowers and the candies and the almost kiss. And the kitten too, of course. I think you really wanted to believe that it was more than just some childish infatuation that I had for you. You wanted to believe it was something more. But you don't have to wish, Estella. _

_Either way, I know you'll take good care of the kitten. You won't just throw him out in the cold and the rain, all alone, just out of spite for me. He is an awfully small little thing. But I know you're better than that, Estella, and I'll always admire you for it. _

_I have to stop writing now because the sun is going down and I traded all my candles to your brother for a bit of pipe weed, and if mum found out about either I'd never hear the end of it. _

_And even though it means I'll have to stop writing, I have to say, Estella, that the sunset tonight looks almost as pretty as you do. _

_Merry_

**III**

The glare of his eyes was unmistakable, and she knew at once—Freddy'd gotten away. Again. Fear gripped her almost as soon as the haggard breath of relief left her body.

_How much longer could they play this game of Cat and Mouse? _

The thought consumed her, wearied her. _Butter scraped over too much bread._ Yes, Freddy had escaped, but at his sister's expense. And who was to say he would not get caught again? His luck was running out. The Ruffians would take no chances a third time around.

She felt herself being yanked from the floor, every raw muscle in her starved, beaten body screaming in protest. When she looked up, swollen eyes squinted in pain, she found herself staring into the shadowed face of Lotho Sackville-Baggins.

She saw immediately that the few months since their last meeting had been as harsh on him as they had been on her—his doppelganger looked as little like its former self as her own did, with its pale face and sunken eyes seared by hysteria, it's sandy locks dishevled and white-streaked, its face hidden by stubble. Gone was Pimple. Gone was the Chief Shirriff. In their place was this hollow shell of a broken man.

His voice cracked under the gravity of his words: "_Where—is—he._" It was not a question.

Her reply was just as biting: "_I—don't—know._" Her voice croaked from disuse.

They stared at each other, two desperate people, trapped and afraid. She could see the lines etched into his face, and was sure he could see the dirt smudged into hers. She could not help but wonder what had happened to him, that they, so different once, should now find themselves wearing such similar countenances.

A sudden noise in the distance roused them from their trance. Lotho looked in the direction of the sound, then back to Estella. "You," he decided abruptly, "will be coming with me."

**IV**

_Meriadoc, _

_Just thought you ought to know—_**the kitten is a she**

_Estella B. _


	2. II

**I**

Michel Delving, Westfarthing. Halimath, September 3, 1419, S.R.

Two Months Before.

It rushed by her face, cool and sooty and slimy—a charred, blistering wind. Time had been lost in the Delving, eaten up by the eternal darkness and unending cold; it could have been Solmath or Halimath down there and no one would have known the difference. Now she found that aboveground it was much the same.

The ground beneath them felt like sand and gravel—gritty, harsh—not like the soft grass or smooth dirt roads that had once roamed it. She knew the trees had gone, for they could not have grown in an earthly womb so infested with infertility. She could smell them burning in the smoke that wafted on the air.

He had blindfolded her eyes, but for what purpose? She knew the landscape; she'd seen it months and months ago—gray, scoured, _dead_. Or perhaps Lotho was ashamed for others to see what he had done to it. Perhaps Lotho was ashamed of himself. She could feel him behind her, looking down, unwilling to face his creation. He held to the strip of fabric tied around her head, directing her body this way and that—jerkily, enviously—as though he wanted the blindfold for himself.

After a few steps he pulled her roughly to a stop, and she felt the pressure on the back of her neck suddenly evaporate. A pony brayed beside her, and the squeak of a wood wagon followed. Lotho led her around to what she presumed was the back and placed her hands on the frame.

"Get on."

Shaking, she obliged, lifting her thin, broken body onto the wagon and collapsing into a pile of grubby hay. She felt the wagon sag as Lotho climbed into the front.

"What, not going to tie me down?" she bit.

"You could barely get on; I don't think you could get off even if you wanted." He bid the pony trot, and they were off.

**II**

Budgeford, Bridgefields, Eastfarthing. Astron, April 2, 1395, S.R.

_Estella,_

_I'm sorry I broke your fancy tea set yesterday. I didn't know I had such a strong swing. I know the tea set was your favorite, so I'll buy you a new one if you want. I'll bring it over the next time I come to play with Fatty, and I'll bring you some flowers and candies. I'll even have tea with you if you like. I'd love to have tea with you anytime, Estella. _

_If it makes you feel any better, I threw my arm out and my eye is now black from that punch you gave me. I don't blame you, Estella. You can hit me anytime you feel like it. I won't be mad. _

_Love,_

_Merry_

**III**

He hastily untied the blindfold, then pocketed it, placing his other hand on her back and urging her forward through the foyer. The small, dirty room seemed oddly familiar, and even as they continued through the dark smial, she felt as though she had visited it before, perhaps in a dream. But something about the place seemed off, distorted, and the sensation haunted her like an unsettling mist that hung about the house and followed her on cat's feet, clawing at her heels.

Perhaps it was the way the pictures hung backwards on the walls, or the way the windows had all been closed, covered with thick, musty drapes or blocked from the outside by some tall, dark thing. The halls smelt of candle wax and pipe weed. And soil. And decay. And something else she could not place. She felt the sensation one got from being in a very large, expansive smial, but the clutter—the maze of books, papers, boxes, crates—was stifling, overwhelming, and she felt as though she were being slowly smothered beneath it.

Her breath caught in her throat, the stagnant air choking her. She could feel the sweat pooling at her brow, trickling down her face, but her body was ice cold. Her hands began to shake—with hunger, with fear, with exhaustion. And the fever enveloped her, took over her mind, numbed her body, and in one graceful swoon laid her blind and prostrate on the floor.

**IV**

_Meriadoc, _

_The tea set you broke was my grandmother's. I doubt you will find another like it. So unless you have a lot of money, don't bother buying a new one. And don't bother coming to see me when you come to play with Fatty, because I do not want to see you ever again, let alone have tea with you. Please return to your fancy smial in Buckland as soon as possible, do not come back, and leave me in peace._

_Oh, and I heard you've been telling everyone that you got your bruise from taming a wild pony. Do I look like a wild pony, Meriadoc Brandybuck?_

_Do I?_

_E. Bolger_

**V**

Hobbiton, Westfarthing. Halimath, September 9, 1419, S.R.

Seven Weeks and One Day Before.

She felt cool water trickle down her fever-flushed cheek, and for a moment was lost in the most refreshing sensation she'd encountered in many months. A damp rag found her forehead, and the sensation increased tenfold as the cloth was gently moved to massage the rest of her face. She opened her weary eyes and found herself being bathed in a large tub filled with gray, lukewarm water, milky from soap and dirt. Beside her crouched an old hobbit woman, her bent back barely visible over the rim of the bathing tub.

Estella watched with weary, half-closed eyes as the woman sat up and dunked a ragged washcloth into the tepid water. Her fingers were long, tin, and pruned, their joints swollen like knots on a stem. Her face was triangular, with pale, craggy skin and sunken eyes that reminded Estella of two coals mashed into a lump of dough. Gray curls covered her head like ivy would a fence post. She had a dark, mysterious look about her; she could have been a housemaid or a witch stirring her cauldron.

But still Estella recognized the remnants of aristocracy in her frail, beaten body—her nails were neatly trimmed, free of dirt; her hands were soft and supple and had never seen a hard day's work; and the way she held her crooked nose and set her wrinkled frown gave Estella the impression that this old hag had once been a proud, prosperous lady.

It was morbid to note how desperately the woman clung to the threads of her previous life. Her hair, though pinned up in an elaborate display, was wilted and greased. Her face, powdered and painted, only made her eyes look darker, older, deeper. The sweat from her forehead made glistening rivulets down her dusty skin, rivulets that turned to black once they reached the soot around her eyes. Or perhaps they were tears. And her dress—dark, like herself, and dusty and faded and eaten, but it must have been beautiful once, with its white lace and intricate embroidery. Once, a long time ago, when the color green was still known to the Shire.

The young hobbit lass at once pitied her and admired her, this aged, decrepit artifact of nobility. And in the sea of emotions that battered her conscience like waves on the shoreline, she suddenly felt a cold, wet ripple of familiarity, small and far and fleeting and disturbed and dark and distorted. But it was enough. It was the same nagging feeling she had felt in the foyer, only this time fulfilled by realization more unsettling than ignorance.

Suddenly, there was no mistaking the woman before her.

"Lobelia."

Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

**VI**

_Estella,_

_You will always be my beautiful, wild pony. I may never tame you, but I will try. _

_I Promise, _

_Merry_

_P.S. Sorry about the tea set._


End file.
